


Chandelier in the Wind

by Rosage



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Trauma, minor inclusions of Faye Celica and Alm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-03 18:34:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14002062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosage/pseuds/Rosage
Summary: Rinea lives, if a life locked away in a tower can be called living. Bit by bit, Clair’s carefree spirit lifts her—but the power Rinea locked away doesn’t take well to dormancy, and it might not be enough.





	1. Caged

**Author's Note:**

> I am posting this for fireemblemfemslashweek’s free-for-all day, but I started it back in the summer of 2017. Thank you to everyone who has encouraged me throughout this process.

After countless days shut in her chambers, hiding her face when attendants usher in light, spots obscure Rinea’s vision of the hall. During her last trip, the castle had seemed so crisp. The lush red carpets, the loose brushwork in the murals, the decorations of ornately twisted iron or glass… It is not Zofia Castle any longer, they tell her, but this is not her One Kingdom.

It is little more than a miasma of colors now, as she can only focus if she keeps her eyes on the floor or shadowy corners. She does not meet the eyes of her guards--royal guards, they tell her, not prison guards, but that’s all she hears in the clinking beside her. They don’t direct her. She does not direct her slippered feet.

 _You’ve rested for such a long time,_ that cleric had said. _It will be good for you to get out_. Rinea had stared at the wall and hadn’t protested when the guards came.

Flashes of light draw her neck upward. More spots assault her, bright and pulsating. As she blinks, they shrink, letting her make out the shape of a chandelier.

Something abandoned sparks inside her. Her heart pounds against its walls, and all she sees is a roaring pyre. Her feet fall out beneath her as if she’s twirling around the ballroom, connected only to a shoulder and a hand.

“We have arrived at the great hall, milady.” The guard’s voice, not deep enough to belong to another, brings part of her back. “If you would like, from here, we--”

She stutters a request to leave and turns heel without waiting for the reply.

* * *

A tapestry embroidered with a dove hangs in Rinea’s room. A quilt and a vase of flowers add further splashes of color. For secrecy’s sake, she sleeps in a windowless corner of the castle, all but adjacent to the dungeons. Only magical baubles provide light. The sight of fire makes her tremble, at best--at worst, she falls to her knees as visions tear the tapestry in two, the dove flying free only to burst into flames with a scream.    

These episodes beget Silque’s pity. Though her staff cannot heal Rinea’s mind, she often sits and feeds the baubles, adding an extra glow that allows Rinea to make out the boughs stitched along the tapestry’s corners.

“You need not tend to me any longer,” Rinea says one day from her place on the bed. “Or has my soul not returned to my body?” She cannot believe it has, but lighting the baubles is not worth Silque’s energy.

“It has, but your health has not. We’re a bit flummoxed about further treatments, so we are grateful for your patience.”

Beneath scarred skin, Rinea’s heart squeezes out strained beats, each on borrowed time. “Surely you have more important matters. Are you not a servant of Mila?”

“I...” The bauble in Silque’s hands flickers. “I am. In truth, it was only Mila’s blessing that allowed your soul to return. I have to believe that we are carrying out her will.”

Rinea clutches the sheets. There is no course left to fulfill the will of her god or her emperor.

“You know, I’m from Rigel,” Silque says. “If you’ve ever a desire to speak of it, I am here.”      

Rinea stares silently at the image of the boughs, wincing when they catch the wavering light.

* * *

After countless days that bleed into nights, a girl she doesn’t recognize brings her supper. The food thus far is neither that of nobles or prisoners, but only appearances tell her this, as she’s lost all sense of taste. Tonight’s dish has an aroma so rich even she takes notice as the girl sets down the tray, flipping a plump braid aside to keep it from dangling in the stew.

The sight twists something inside Rinea. She hasn’t had reason to do anything with her hair since she woke with the nuns hovering over her. Servants have washed the grease from it, but it has grown thin, and it brushes uncomfortably around her jaw when she sits up.

Despite its meaty texture and smell, the meal falls flat on Rinea’s tongue. The girl, who introduces herself as Faye, sits in Silque’s usual chair and watches with a strange intensity. At least Silque always pretends to be otherwise occupied.

“Your hair is so pretty,” Faye comments. “Like Silque’s, but longer. It must look beautiful done up.”

 _Because we’re both from Rigel_. It’s the first time that revelation has hit her, but she doesn’t know what to do with it. She grasps instead for the present.

“You don’t have to stay and watch,” Rinea says. “I promise I will finish it.”

“I kinda promised I’d stay. Silque probably thought you’d want company.”

The only company she wanted is gone. “I’ve no need for it.”

“I thought I didn’t, either,” Faye says, “but Silque likes to meddle.” Her voice sounds fond, in its way, and it tugs at Rinea’s heart. “You don’t have to be my friend if you don’t want to, though.”

She says it so matter-of-factly that Rinea can’t bring herself to agree. She can’t bring herself to chat either, so she finishes her food before speaking again. “If you’d like to see my hair up, will you help?”

Faye brightens almost too much. Rinea turns away toward the wall, clasping her hands in her lap as the mattress sinks behind her. A touch at her back makes her flinch. After that, there is no contact, nor any pulling. She barely realizes Faye has finished when she announces Rinea can look.   

Faye tilts a hand mirror until it catches the light. A stranger with a gaunt face watches Rinea through haunted eyes. Rather than her usual hairstyle, the braids wrap horizontally around the back of her head. Faye’s smile pokes out from behind the mirror. “Pretty, right?”

Rinea musters pity. All she’s done is burden Faye further. “I can do yours as well,” Rinea says before thinking it through. Faye appears confused, but the smile returns as she shifts to perch at the edge of the mattress. At least she can’t see Rinea clumsily undo Faye’s braids.

“I’ve never really tried a new look. It’s been a long time since someone else braided it for me.”

Rinea pauses to think; has she ever braided her own? She stares, lost, at the hair she gathers. She separates it into sections, then tries to interweave them, creating only a loose mess.

“I’m sorry, I don’t… I don’t…”

Strands of hair slip through her trembling fingers. What will become of her, unable to do even the simplest tasks, once she has to leave? She would only endanger her own house’s servants by returning. If her survival was known, the remaining Duma Faithful would come after her.

“Huh? What’s wrong? Oh--do you want me to show you?”

“No,” Rinea says. “No, I… Please leave me be.”

Faye seems put out as she stands and takes the tray, with nothing keeping her hair from dragging in it. Rinea’s braids rest uncomfortably between her head and the pillow.

* * *

At Silque’s recommendation, Rinea moves to a room with more light, one in a high enough tower that the window won’t compromise her security. In this one, the flowers are a species she doesn’t recognize, delicate bell shapes that wouldn’t have survived in the Rigelian climate.

Unable to forget her fumbling attempts to braid, she tries again on her own hair until she can manage. She was skilled with her hands before she lost control of her body.

(Lost it so briefly, but she’s still sluggish, and at night guards have to stop her from leaving the room in her sleep.)

She spins her ring, easier to do now on her bony finger, then jams it up until it pinches. Its blessings have worn off--whether that is supposed to happen, or if it is because Duma is gone, she does not know. It used to restore her strength a little each morning. _You know how I detest witchcraft,_ he had said, _but we will be riding out often, and I cannot be watching you._ As long as he watched his enemies, she had not minded. She had the ring’s comfort when she woke. Now she must rise from bed without its boon.

On a day when she is not only upright, but pacing--a day when her vision is clear enough to see the outline of the forest against the horizon--she asks for needle and thread. With spare scraps she practices stitches until her hands stop shaking enough to advance to more complex shapes. She moves on from flowers she knows to the ones in her room, and then attempts a bird.

Having lost the tapestry for reference, she watches out the window. The trees are unfamiliar, too; she hears come winter they’ll turn red, then brown, then shrivel. Above them, a creature circles that almost looks too large to be real. _A terror?_ When it flies closer she makes out the shape of a horse and realizes she’s watching a pegasus.

Not just a pegasus. When Rinea squints, she spies a rider in a proud stance. Lowering her work, she leans out of the window to follow the knight’s looping path, free and unrestrained.

The bird she imagined seems so static now. She struggles to outline one with lifted wings until her heavy body forces her back to bed.

* * *

The next day, she can barely sit up. The day after, she’s back to relearning embroidery. She sets up a station for it by the window in case the pegasus knight returns, but is only rewarded with a bright blue bird.

Finally, she spies the pegasus soaring again in figure eights and fancier curves that can’t possibly be battle maneuvers. Her plan to use the sight as inspiration falters when she again puts down her work to watch, unable to look away.

The day after, it storms, and Rinea is bedridden. She only hopes the pegasus and rider weren’t caught in the weather.

But they appear again soon, and enough times after that it becomes a pattern, and Rinea stops pricking herself with her needle.

* * *

One day when she sets up to watch, the skies--though clear and inviting--remain empty. Instead, a guard enters unexpectedly, sweating for the first time Rinea can remember. The sight spikes her heart rate, always a painful rhythm with her injury. It enforces her stationary lifestyle, but she can’t say it’s not fitting, being revived as she was with a broken heart.

“Milady, someone is requesting an audience.”

Rinea goes rigid. Alm has called upon her before. She has heard he is kind, but she can’t think of seeing him. He always leaves upon hearing that, even though he is the emperor, and this castle is his home.

“She hasn’t been authorized to see you, but she’s quite, er, insistent,” the guard continues, and Rinea’s furrowed brow lifts in confusion.

“Who is she?”

“Lady Clair, sister to Sir Clive, Captain of the Brotherhood of Knights. She herself is a knight, but she hasn’t been told of your--”

“Begging your pardon, does she ride a pegasus?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I will see her.”

Still looking troubled, the guard bows and exits to fetch her. Only then does Rinea realize what she’s done. A spy could easily gather information on her from the air, with her all but falling out of her window to gawk! The guard’s instincts must be honed enough to see that.

Nonetheless, she straightens her back against her chair and folds her hands in her lap. She does not reveal her surprise when a girl who looks her age enters, a skip in her step as if in flight. Her neck swivels, face bright, like the room contains anything that isn’t pitiable.  

“Oh, what a quaint little tower,” she says. Her eyes land on Rinea, sharp and curious--and then, a little embarrassed before Clair dips in a shallow curtsy. “Pardon me! Where are my manners? I am Clair. I assume the man announced me properly. I couldn’t help but notice you watching me from your window, so I just had to ask for the honor of your name. I would have called sooner, but it took those silly guards a while to understand.”

“You may call me Rinea, my lady.” As soon as the name slips out, she realizes she should have chosen another. Clair’s wide eyes confirm this. _Careless. Simply because her manner is so..._

“Surely you are not _the_ Lady Rinea?”

“I cannot say if there are others.”

“You must forgive me. I… I have seen you before, but you were…”

Rinea’s hands clench. She can’t place any faces from that time; everyone tiptoes around the subject. Did Faye face her down? Is she responsible for the burn on Silque’s cheek?

Whose blade slipped between her ribs?

“No wonder you appear a little ghastly. You poor dear. Goodness, but nobody even told me you survived.” Clair’s cheek puffs, briefly enough that Rinea only notices because she is studying Clair for burns. All she finds is a cut on Clair’s jaw. “Nonetheless, it is good fortune. Please excuse my dreariness. So? Is my darling Maybelle’s flight not magnificent?”

“It is breathtaking.” With the topic turned to pleasantries, Rinea realizes Clair is still standing, twirling her bang with a finger. It is not as if Rinea plays hostess often in this tower. There is a stool beside the table, but she’s begun using it to store her supplies. How slovenly Clair must find her.

She hurries to clear off the stool, setting everything on the table for lack of another surface within reach. “Please, sit. Forgive me for having nothing to offer you. I… Lately, I’ve…”

“Think nothing of it. I neglected to bring a gift in my family’s name, or to warn you I was calling. If you will forgive my breath of etiquette, I shall forgive yours.”

“Yes, of course.” Rinea smiles, milder than the sunshine Clair brought in with her, but genuine. It is nice to be treated as if she is not a patient at best and a prisoner of war at worst.

Clair settles in and crosses her legs, making a throne of her perch. “What a pleasure to meet someone with such fine taste. With the war over, many are after me to settle on land.”

“Oh, please don’t. That is, not that it’s my business, but--”

Clair laughs, high and sweet, like a bell. “Everyone makes it their business. It’s refreshing to receive a different order, at least. Rest assured, I do as I please.” She sighs. “If I may be candid, I only began riding so I could keep up with everyone, especially my brother. It’s not so easy when you’re the youngest. But now, I soar above them. And Maybelle is delightful. Would you like to meet her?”

Even seated stiffly, Rinea feels as if she’s spinning. She at least manages to grasp the question. “I would not be allowed.”

“Oh.” Clair’s near-pout lasts as briefly as her other moods. “But enough about me. Please tell me you’re at least allowed other entertainment besides my shows.”

Rinea gestures to the table’s contents. “I’m afraid I have nothing completed to show you. It’s all paltry practice.” Her best work took months, after all, but she can’t retrieve it now. Clair picks up each piece and eyes them sharply, running a finger over the stitches.

“Oh, but it must be wonderful to make fine things. I must confess, I never did manage to learn delicate arts.”

If it weren’t for the light in Clair’s eyes, Rinea would assume all of this was being done to mock her. Rigelian nobles pulled more elaborate pranks before her engagement was announced. But she has no grace to fall from now, and Clair’s enthusiasm spurs Rinea to do what she can in return. “If milady wishes it, I will embroider something for you.”

“Truly? I would be ever so grateful.”

“It would be my pleasure. Do you have a favorite symbol?”

“There is my family crest. And of course, I feel most exhilarated when I fly atop my pegasus. However, I admit it would be nice to have something a little more unique. Oh!”

“Yes?”

“A cow!”

“A...cow?”

“Yes, a handkerchief with an adorable little cow emblazoned in the corner.  Don’t you think it would be just cheeky?”

A giggle passes Rinea’s lips, grating foreign on her ears. “If that is what milady wishes.”

“Then it is settled. What price would you require?”

“You have already entertained me,” Rinea says. Clair has done more than that, but it feels shameful to say as much. “Please, consider it a gift.”

“Truly? You are ever so gracious! Then I must return the favor.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“Why, of course it is. You can decide the terms later, if you’d like.”

Rinea can’t think of _later_. But she hasn’t the energy to protest, and the promise couldn’t hurt to have.

Even so, once Clair leaves, Rinea twists her ring and thinks about how promises to her have gone horribly, horribly wrong.


	2. Plummet

Rinea kneels by the hearth in her parents’ estate. Voices filter from the other room, old and echoing, as if through water. A lord and her father, the former sharp, the latter laced with _sorry_. Shivering, Rinea leans toward the hearth, though the heat is already a brand searing her chest. It builds in her stomach, too much to contain, and the logs are spilling out of the fireplace but she needs to add more...

The smell of smoke makes her sneeze and open watery eyes. Flames dance at the hem of her sleeve. She bolts upright, waving her arm and commanding her magic to cease. The fire dies, leaving her sweating in the dark.

 _The castle tower._ She feels around. Thankfully her bedding caught no sparks; it’s heaped at the foot of the mattress where she flung it off in her sleep. But her nightgown… Candles are never lit in her room. If they see the burnt fabric, the castle residents will know Duma’s magic lives in her.

Fear chokes her like smoke. If she is cast out, the Duma Faithful will find her. They’ll know her soul was taken back from him, and they’ll snatch it away again, this time for good.  

She scrambles for a fresh nightgown, hiding the soiled one at the bottom of the pile and praying to whoever is on her side that nobody finds it. She climbs back into bed, willing her heart to calm before it betrays her again.

The next morning she is drained from even her slight magical usage, but she drags herself over to retrieve the burnt nightgown and her sewing materials. She sits on the floor below the window to stitch a patch over the singed sleeve. Just as she’s tied the thread, Silque enters. She approaches quietly, concern on her face, and helps Rinea back to bed. As Silque folds the nightgown, she touches the patch in silent question.

“I-I tore it,” Rinea says. “Forgive my clumsiness.”

“There is nothing to forgive. Were you, perchance, thrashing in your sleep?”  
  
“No.” The lie comes out as automatically as with visiting Duma Faithful or higher-ranking nobles. “I, ah, tried to stretch more than I can handle, with my current health.”

Silque pats her arm, and Rinea tries not to flinch. “You are making great strides. Soon, you will be able to move about as you wish.”

Though she nods, Rinea is beginning to think it’s better for everyone if she stays secluded.

* * *

A fog smothers the world outside Rinea’s tower, and another fills her mind. During her morning treatments, Silque’s chatter is splintered into little more than noise, and later when a guard announces a visitor she does not hear the name. With no view out the window, she only settled by it to work on the handkerchief Clair requested. Clair has not visited since then, even on clear days. Rinea welcomes finally having her company.

Alm enters, and the handkerchief drops along with Rinea’s smile.

She barely registers his greeting or her response. At a loss for what else to do, she rises and bows. She cannot possibly invite the emperor to sit on the stool next to her sewing table.

“I’m surprised you let me in. I know you didn’t want to see me before.”

“You are the emperor,” she says with ash in her mouth. “You are entitled to any audience you wish.”

“I can’t just force you to talk to me.” Who is he fooling? “If you want me to leave, I will.”

The sore spot between her ribs throbs. But for all she’s heard of him, she needs only lift her chin slightly to meet his eyes--familiar eyes that carry a world’s sadness.

“What might I do for you, milord?”

“Not address me that way, for one.” He laughs awkwardly. “We were going to be family, you know? I was hoping...”

She winces.

“Oh. Too soon. Right.” The hand he raises drops before it reaches his neck. He folds his arms behind his back. “How are you feeling? Can we get you anything else?”

“I’m well provided for, milord.”

His smile does not cover for his sigh. “If you need anything, please call for it--or me. Things have been busy, but I’ll make time.”

In the moment before he leaves, pain spears her chest. She collapses into her chair and jams her ring higher up until it’s tight enough to hurt.

* * *

The handkerchief sits folded away, waiting for Clair’s return. During the wait Rinea expanded the design to incorporate not only the requested cow, but also the family crest in which Clair takes so much pride, and dynamic enough lines to match her arcs in the sky. If she looks at it again she’ll make it cluttered and gaudy while worrying away the hours.

When Clair enters, Rinea lifts her head from her pillow. Having lost hope or reason for waiting by her window, she flushes at how improper a position she is in to receive a guest. Stiffly she drops bare feet on the stone and brushes out the wrinkles of her gown.

“Forgive me for not announcing myself. I shall wait outside,” Clair says.

“Please, wait.” Rinea reaches out unsteadily. The room tumbles in circles until a rough hand catches hers. Clair kneels by her bedside. “I’m sorry. If I sit up too quickly, I…”

“Do not apologize for your health, silly. Poor dear, you’re as white as my pegasus.”

When she can see clearly, Rinea notes that Clair has tanned, and that her shirt fits snug over strong arms. Apparently a mission called her away to the borderlands without a chance to send word. She describes the kind people whose aid she came to, and Rinea marvels a little that after all that, such a noble knight returned to aid her as well.

“Did you know so many sheep can dot a field it looks like clouds have fallen on the horizon? Oh, there, your cheeks look much better.” Clair pats one, making it heat further.

Rinea gestures to the drawer in which she’s hidden the handkerchief. It’s not how she meant to present it, but at least she wrapped it in nice paper days before. Silque had fetched the paper at her request, winking when she handed it over along with a blue ribbon.

“Oh,” Clair exclaims. “How charming! You really have an eye for these things. It’s so personalized.”

“I’m glad it pleases you, milady.”

“Please, the lady may call me Clair.” Rinea does not point out that Clair did not use her name in return. “It is only proper, if we are to be seeing more of each other.”

 _We are?_ Rinea’s heart does another of its excited, painful dances. Even though she does not match Clair’s status, she bobs her head in assent.

* * *

Rinea’s hood shelters her from the sun. It’s nothing like the hat doing the same for Clair, blue flowers bunched along the ribbon, but it hides Rinea’s face. Regardless they sit in an isolated corner of the courtyard, hidden by bushes and watched over by guards along the wall. It was Clair’s idea, and Rinea did not want to disappoint, even if she cannot keep from fiddling with the lace of her dress.

“Please, I have nothing to offer in return for all this,” she says as Clair pours tea. Surely Clair has limited need for bovine handkerchiefs.

“Oh, posh. Do you prefer raspberry or strawberry preserves?”

“Whatever you recommend. Please, I…”

Clair sighs and tosses a bang. “If you must offer something beyond your company, you may tell me again how beautiful I am in flight.”

“You are splendid. That is, beautiful. Ah, I meant your flight is--”

Clair interrupts with a flap of her hand and a laugh while Rinea turns hot beneath her hood.

A rosy scent helps her settle. She waves away a bee and giggles as it bounces back around the garden. It draws her eye to clusters of purple-blue blossoms that make her gasp.

“Oh, hyacinths! Those are native to Archanea,” Rinea says.

“Archanean flowers bloom here?”

“Yes. Sometimes seeds cross the sea, whether on purpose or not. They don’t always flourish, but these are so beautiful--ah, I’m sorry, I must sound like a bore.”

“Not at all! Please, tell me more. I know so little about your pastimes back home.”

Rinea means to explain that she danced barefoot in gardens like this, swaying to the music of the birds and crickets. Then she remembers the last time she admitted this and everything after.

“It’s nothing so interesting as what you must do here.”

At her prompting, Clair tells her of the instruments her family and especially her brother plays. Rigelian music was nothing as free as she describes; what little money patrons spared for it went toward strictly controlled styles that celebrated the Rigelian emperor. Bold composers wove in their own messages with dissonant notes that haunted Rinea after a performance, most of which she only saw after her betrothal raised her family’s standing.

“Did you at least get to experience the pleasures of a ball?” Clair asks. “When I haven’t had a good dance in a while, I get so restless.”

With how she glides through the sky, Clair must make a spectacle on the dance floor. The thought of it makes Rinea hide her mouth on the rim of her cup. “On occasion,” she says. “But if I might say, you are of more respected breeding than I. If I was put on any guest lists, it was for a jape.”

A shadow crosses Clair’s face. Rinea’s grip on the cup tightens.

“How shamelessly petty,” Clair declares. “You needn’t miss the company of such ill-mannered ruffians. Oh!” Before Rinea can register that the anger is not directed at her, Clair brightens. “You could attend a ball with me instead.”

Rather than picturing Clair dance from afar, Rinea imagines dancing with her, right there between the bushes. Her breath catches. “With you? I’m sorry, I couldn’t.”   
  
“Why ever not? If you don’t wish to, I shan’t force the matter, but of course you can.”

“I’m in hiding. Please, I must exercise caution.”

“Forgive me, I got carried away. Well, how many people know of your presence? We could restrict the guest list. Our friends run this castle, they can simply--”

Rinea drops her cup with a clatter. “I was not trying to beget pity. Please, I’m not… I can’t have such things.”

The flowers’ sweet scent suffocates her as she stands and turns away from Clair’s wide eyes.

* * *

The pyre crackles behind her. Its roar is her own; she spreads it past its wooden cage to devour the room beyond. If they make it outside, they can find a way up out of the catacombs. They can find air to feed them until they are strong enough to fight the sky.

She hovers above the stone, lowering when she spreads herself out to heal their minions, rising again when her ring restores her strength.

Enemies strike down their minions faster than she can heal them, gaining ground until she can see the shadows over their faces. Blasphemers. They run uselessly across the stone, out of reach of her. She prepares to strike them down.

A voice echoes beside her--deep, gravelly, grounding. Berkut.

Berkut.

Rinea. Her name is Rinea.

In a panic, she flings sparks to make Duma’s enemies jump back. She casts flames from her fingertips to their feet, not an attack, but a warning. _Away. Away. Stay away._

A whinny, and one of them is level with her, forcing Rinea’s neck up. Her fire reflects in someone’s helmet. A spear. The threat pulls her away from everything happening below, rising thick to choke her.

Someone is threatening them, threatening Duma. She raises a hand and calls for an inferno.

At its edges, feathers flutter.

* * *

Rinea wakes to pressure on her hand. She yanks it away, hissing at a searing pain.

“My apologies. I thought it would spare you discomfort if I treated it while you slept.”

Trying to place the voice is like finding one of a thousand tulips. Rinea blinks back the light of the bauble until she recognizes curtains of hair.

“Silque?”

“That’s right. How are you feeling?”

Rinea cannot answer. She’s already been propped up a little on her pillow, but tries to rise further. Her head feels as if it splits in two before dropping back.

“Shall I explain what happened?”

Rinea tries to nod, then tries to speak, only uttering a guttural noise. It must sound enough like _yes_.

“You sleepwalk at times. Usually, you are kept from leaving your room. Last night, the guards’ performance was loathsome.” Silque’s usually smooth voice gains a harsh edge. “The one stationed outside your door was found at the tavern. The one down the hall was new, and apparently spooked by ghost stories. He attacked you on sight.”

A spear, the head of a spear, charging at her. Her hand, shooting out…

Her heart beats to escape her ribcage.

“You are safe,” Silque says with a careful pat at the back of her hand, above her bandaged fingers. Rinea tries to wiggle them. Burned.

“And he…?”

Silque falters. “He will be all right.”

“Will be? What have I…”

“He was young and foolish, Mila help his soul.”

“ _What have I done_?”

Sobs wrack Rinea’s body. She cannot squeeze out more words, nor can she understand any of Silque’s, though her presence remains at her side.

* * *

Whatever guards are stationed near her next, they do their job. She wakes every morning in her bed with her fire still inside her.

It makes her body restless enough to get up and circle the room with Silque’s help, even as her mind is blank. Her limbs are stiff from rest, her movements slow. The needle and thread on the table cause a spark inside her that dies when the sight is gone.

“The guard’s recovery is smooth,” Silque tells her, “though he’ll be sent back to training until he can keep his wits about him.”

 _He’s fine_ , she thinks. _He’s fine_. Fine, but set back, and scarred. Perhaps in the soul as well, as she has been.

Exclamations from the hall make her cover her ears. Minutes later, a guard enters looking as tired as Rinea feels.

“My apologies,” he says, more to Silque than to Rinea, at whom he does not directly look. “Lady Clair here to see you, my lady.”

The name stabs Rinea’s heart. _Why?_ This is Clair, kind Clair, who took tea with her in the garden, who made a point of flying her pegasus past Rinea’s window.

Her mouth goes too dry for words to slide out, and she almost chokes on them. “I will not see her.”

The guard exits. One brief exclamation leaks in from the hall before it goes silent, leaving Rinea with her throbbing heart.


	3. Steps

Celica turns chairs into thrones in a different way than Clair, more casually, as if she is not aware she is doing so. Rinea tries not to bend over her lap, where her hands twist, her ring lost in the folds of her skirt. The breeze atop the tower wall ruffles the fabric and tosses strands of hair into her mouth, but it soothes her and keeps her cheeks from flaming in shame.

“I like to sit out here when I have a spare moment,” Celica says. “If you look hard enough, you can see the sea on the horizon.”

Rinea squints to make out the layers of blue. Briefly she closes her eyes and tries to imagine what it must be like at the shore. All she knows is that the sea can destroy everything those by it have built up, even those who relied on it the most.

“As you say, your majesty.”

“Please, there’s no need to be so formal,” Celica says as if she isn’t an empress, an empress who spends every day beside her emperor. Rinea feels so heavy that even a gale could not toss her from the wall. She lifts her hands to find and clutch her ring.

“As you say.”

Celica half-sighs, like she’s swallowing up the rest. “How are your quarters? Can we provide you with anything else?”

“No, you’ve already… Please, your majesty--um, Lady Celica, if I may speak?”

“Please do.”

“I have done a terrible thing. Before, and here, in your home. If I am to be punished, I would only beg your swiftness.”

Celica’s composure falters, her features lifting and then curling. “What happened in that battle is not your fault. If that awful man hadn’t--”

“Do not speak of him thus!” Rinea’s sharp voice startles her as much as her giggle the other day had. With a panic she realizes that Celica has the power to change her mind about any mercy--to cast her out, or order her execution. “I beg your forgiveness for my tone. But you never even met him, and I, we were betrothed.”

“My apologies for not considering your feelings. I know he was special to you. At any rate, as to the guard, I’m only glad nobody had worse injuries. But, Lady Rinea, can we discuss it?”

“As you wish.”

“Now that we know this can happen, we must take precautions. I became a witch too, you know. The nightmares, the fear of your own power--I know them well.” She casts her eyes down, perhaps to avoid Rinea’s shock. “My companions wield magic. I’ve had many sessions with them to make sure I can control it. If you are willing to do the same, I will facilitate it.”

“I will do anything to avoid hurting anyone else. However, I react so terribly to fire. I’m afraid I would be wasting everyone’s time.”

“If it helps, it’s not a waste. But it needn’t be fire. I’m the same way about it, so we had to be a little creative.” Celica stands while Rinea processes this; she hadn’t imagined the empress to be scared of anything. Celica turns to rest on the wall, looking out over the distance, perhaps to the sea she seems to love.

“I fought Alm, you know,” Celica continues. “I barely remember anything but Duma and Mila’s voices clashing in my head. But we both have scars on our stomachs to prove it.”

“I… I hadn’t any idea.” Rinea tries to picture it, but even an altered version of the tower’s events sends her spiraling. She focuses instead on Celica, who hardly looks the picture of tragedy. “You are so strong. I have barely been able to lift myself from bed, yet you lead a new nation, and even make time for me.”

“There’s no need to compare us. I have Alm and all my trusted companions. I carry on for them.” The breeze loosens Celica’s hair, which she tucks behind her ear. “When I was at my lowest, I pushed away those who would share my burdens. In the end, we only persevered together.”

Clutching her sleeve, Rinea thinks of the nightgown she ruined, the one she rushed to hide. If she had not, would she have been able to prevent hurting that guard? Even being banished would have done so.   
  
“Lady Celica, am I understanding correctly then that I, that is, you are not sending me away?” 

“No,” Celica says. “No, of course not.”  


“Then would I… Would I be free to leave?”

“Of course,” Celica says again, eyebrows lifting higher with each answer. “Silque intimated that were not well enough, but I did not intend to hold you against your will.”

“I may not be well enough,” Rinea admits, even as her curiosity about the sea grows more with each wistful look Celica casts over the wall. “And begging your pardon, unlike you, I don’t have the royal guard to protect me from…” Her lips tremble as she cuts off. Celica looks around, then leans down to whisper in Rinea’s ear. 

“There is a sage who lives in a secret hamlet. He has sheltered those who needed to hide their existence in the past. I worried you weren’t in good enough health for such a journey, but if you would like, I will put in a word.”

The idea of being able to go outside, to see the trees she so misses, lifts her spirits. Still, she cannot let go of Celica’s earlier words. For all of Clair’s kindness, Rinea has pushed her away. If that were her last chance to see her, she couldn’t bear it.

“I thank you for your guidance, but if I may impose upon you just a little longer?”

Celica straightens with a warm smile. “It’s no imposition. Stay as long as you’d like.”

* * *

Rinea has not seen Faye since she made a fool of herself fumbling a braid. It doesn’t surprise her that Faye looks skeptical when she lends Rinea her tome, though she follows Silque’s directions without complaint. Rinea does the same, getting into position in an open area. She’s borrowed a nun’s habit as well, tucked to hide as much of her as possible so that she could be taken out into a field. Trying her magic in anything resembling a tower or dungeon seems counterproductive at best, whereas the lush grass and nearby forest go some way to relieving her nerves. In better circumstances, she would twirl. Now she tries to stay steady as she opens her tome.

Her spirit isn’t in the recitations. Who would she pray to, if there was someone still there? But every magic user must be grappling with this, so she reads the chants verbatim, if not with devotion.

The magic inside her is not so empty. It surges toward her fingertips, burning her veins. She fights it, and it fights back, making her chew her dry lips and blink her wet eyes to contain it.

No, she is not to push it down--she is to direct it. She points her fingers to the glass bauble Silque has placed on a stump.

_ Think of filling it, _ she had instructed.  _ If you are gentle, it needn’t break. _

The clouds above are white puffs, but a bolt of lightning splits the air, burning the grass near the stump. A second bolt shatters the glass. The sound makes Rinea drop the tome.

“It’s all right,” Silque says. Her hands hover by Rinea’s shoulders. “That was a splendid first attempt.”

It’s doubtful Faye agrees as Silque directs her to clean the mess, but somehow she seems happy to do so. When Rinea hurries to her knees to help, Faye waves her away. “Silque asked  _ me _ . You recover your strength so you can try again.”

She shuffles back obediently, but remains kneeling. Magic drains even the healthiest body, which is certainly not hers.

Perhaps that’s why, after a few similar attempts, Silque calls the end of the session. “Forgive me,” Rinea says.

“Anyone with latent magic needs multiple training sessions. Constant, even.”

The thought makes Rinea shiver. Any mage who practiced so much in Rigel would have drawn the Duma Faithful’s attention; a young woman, especially, would have been given up as a witch. Could even this much reveal her location?

Still, hiding inside holds less appeal when she can smell the earth. Hesitantly she asks if she might stay longer, and as Silque must report to the empress, she puts Faye in charge of Rinea’s protection. Faye smiles at the duty but frowns as Silque retreats.

Rinea is tongue-tied for several awkward minutes before she blurts, “Your braids are loose.”

Faye looks down with surprise.  _ Loose  _ is not quite the word; the magic frizzled them. She doesn’t seem fussed about it until she mutters, “Did Silque see?” and hurries to untie them.

Rinea draws closer. “I’ll help,” she says. “It’s the least I can do.”

If Faye is again skeptical, she gives Rinea the benefit of the doubt and plops down in front of her. There is not much Rinea can do to straighten the hair without a brush, so she does the best she can with her fingers, then separates the hair into sections. As she weaves, small white flowers on the ground catch her eye, and she plucks a couple for the bottom of the braids.

“Cute,” Faye says, fingering them. They are not the neatest, but it’s an improvement. “Thanks.”

Rinea summons the courage to ask, “Were you in that battle?”

“Was I...? Oh, yeah. To be honest, all I cared about was striking down Alm’s enemies. I wanted him to stay safe--and to notice me. So you were kinda like any other enemy. Sorry.”

“And did he notice?” Rinea asks softly. Faye shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

She had never followed her lord to the battlefield of her own accord. Then again, he had noticed her when she did nothing but cower in the corner of a ballroom. Perhaps it wasn’t a matter of earning attention. 

“It’s different now,” Faye says. “If following him across the continent didn’t make him notice... Anyway, you’re pretty nice. It’s funny how you can feel like you understand someone when you didn’t even try before.”

Rinea smiles. “I could not agree more.”

* * *

It has been long enough since she last saw Clair that her appearance makes Rinea’s breath catch in her throat. With Clair’s warmth and the ease with which she commands a room, she always stuns Rinea. Today a green gown brings out amber flecks in her eyes, and a feather-shaped pendant is fixed to her collar. She pats the ribbons pinning her hair, a nervous tic Rinea would recognize in the mirror, but not in Clair.

_ Do I scare her now?  _ The thought is too unbearable to be worth the sight.

“Have I met your approval for entrance?” Clair asks.

“Of--of course! Please, sit.”

Though Rinea’s room has as little to offer as ever, Clair does not waste time; her shoes clack too sharply to be comfortable. She shifts in the seat, smoothing her skirt before settling. “If I am unwanted, I shall remove myself.”

“No! No, never.” Rinea intends to sit by her, to at least provide proper company, but her legs will not move. After what she’s done, she doesn’t trust them enough to force them.

“I worried I had fallen out of your favor. Not that  _ I  _ have reason to worry.”

Rinea intends to explain she had been dangerous, but the notion of Clair falling out of favor with _her_ shocks her. As she sinks to her knees at Clair’s feet, words tumble from her tongue. 

“You deserve better company. My house is impoverished, and lost to me besides. My heart’s only luxury was a man dead, and I…”

“Oh, posh. The lady will not judge my choice in company. I go where I please, and see who I please.”

“I meant no disrespect. I--I admire your strength more than I can say. Yet my body and soul remain weak. Perhaps my magic is strong, but to use it again after...”

“The man attacked you, did he not? I have given him a full lecture about a knight’s honor.”

A knight? Hadn’t he been a scared soldier, and bedridden besides, at Rinea’s hand? “It is not only that. It is--forgive me, my lady, but I must ask. Were you there the day I took to the field?”

The immovable Clair recoils, and Rinea withdraws.

“Have you heard anything about it?” Clair asks.

“No. Everyone tiptoes around it, and I’ve been too frightened to ask.”

“I see. Well, I certainly loathe being tiptoed around. It is only fair to tell you what I saw.”

“Then you were there?”

“I was. You were, too, but you appeared to be made of fire; I scarcely recognize you now.”

Clair fingers her pendant, and Rinea twists her ring with trembling fingers. “What was I doing?”

“You were…floating. Hovering, like a chandelier above a ball. Our mages could not burn you; it was as if you simply absorbed their fire. And a swordsman certainly couldn’t reach you, so I… While Alm engaged Lord Berkut, I flew on ahead to strike you out of the air.”

Clair’s hand falls to her abdomen, and Rinea feels nauseous.

“I’m sorry,” Rinea says. It’s not enough.  _ Sorry  _ is for a misspoken name, for ruining a ball with her presence. “So sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing? I nearly killed you!”

“And I you, no doubt. Your stomach, did I…?”

“All knights carry scars. They’re a mark of pride.” The words don’t sound like Clair’s own. Then again, Rinea hardly knows her or her intentions. A thought strikes like lightning.

“If you approached me out of guilt, I absolve you. One such as you should not be weighed down.”

“Did I not say? I go where I wish, and I see who I wish. Though I admit, I was curious about the woman I’d fought. Until I found you in this tower, I thought I  _ had  _ killed you. I killed many soldiers, but I never got the chance to sit face-to-face with them in the gardens, or….”

Rinea’s bandaged hand lifts from her ring to catch Clair’s hand, as Clair had caught her that day she almost fell from bed. She brings her fingers to her lips, finding the skin rougher than expected but still so soft compared to the stone beneath her knees.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, moving away before her tears can fall on Clair’s skin. Clair joins her on the ground, cupping Rinea’s face to tilt it toward her. Rinea sits frozen while Clair dabs at her cheeks with a handkerchief--the one Rinea embroidered.

“I don’t care for anyone’s opinion, the cow is delightful,” Clair says. “How can more tears fall after seeing it? Brilliant foresight, if I do say so myself.”

Kneeling with the woman who would have been her murderer, Rinea does giggle, wet and squeaky.


	4. Flight

After many tries, her magic fills the glass, and it does not break.

She lies in the grass, panting. Though Silque recently mixed a medicine that boosts her energy, the magic has left her body as empty as the glass was. She casts down her roots, searching barren soil for sustenance. The fire sticks to her skin, trapped there, making sweat streak her neck where Faye’s braiding keep her hair off of it. Silque lays a wet cloth on her forehead. Looking past her, Rinea spies a pegasus circling overhead and smiles.

“You should be proud,” Silque says. “You’ve made marvelous improvement.”

Rinea lets her think that’s why she’s smiling. In between their sessions, she asked Silque to tell her about her childhood in Rigel. Silque’s eyes became distant as she described her pilgrimage and its end, and Rinea understood that saving others is how Silque saves herself.

Rinea is not sure she can do the same. But she does know the world outside the castle is one recovering from war, from gods. Rinea has as little interest in making a spectacle of the aftermath of war as of war itself, but the land Silque described was nothing Rinea had seen in her time at court or in her lord’s caravan.

A spear twists in her chest. Somehow she misunderstood him, so horribly, in the end. Many times after these magical sessions, with her mind clear of fire, she has remembered their final conversations and wondered where she went wrong. How she could have fixed it, saved them. She has spoken of it with Clair, whose childhood friend fought beside Berkut, and who was convinced she and her brother could have stopped him. It was Rinea’s conviction that they were not to blame that made something within Rinea click.

Berkut made his choice. As for predicting it, she never rode with him into battle, and perhaps there is no other way to understand a warrior.

* * *

Alm is a warrior king, but his fidgeting makes his throne into a chair.

Rinea focuses on it to keep the rest of the room from spinning. On the way here she had to pass through the ballroom, and she closed her eyes and held her breath the whole time. She could have been at a masquerade, with the mask that covers the top half of her face; it was left in her room with a note, signed only _a friend_.

“I’m happy to see you,” Alm says. His soft voice gives her no reason to doubt him. “Can I help you with something?”

“The empress made me an offer,” Rinea says in a hush. Aware they could be heard, she moves toward him, but guards stop her. He frowns at them.

“You don’t have to explain. Did you accept it? I’ll tell her.”

“Please tell her thank you, but no. I don’t want to hide. The world is changing, is it not? The more time I spend away, the less prepared I will be to rejoin it.”

“I’ll tell her.” The approval in his eyes makes her cast her own downward.

“My lord, you have welcomed me into your home. You have kept me safe and fed. I thank you, but as to what you said before, forgive me. We will never be family.”

“I understand. And I’m sorry. Maybe someday, we can be friends.”

The man--the _boy_ who might have killed Berkut smiles at her, bright and hopeful, and she can only dip and nod.

* * *

On the way back to her rooms, she spies Clair speaking to a pair of young men. Her admonishment rings through the halls, but soon enough she is laughing, prodding them with her elbows in an unladylike manner. At the sight of Rinea, Clair disentangles from them to greet her.

“Am I that recognizable?” Rinea whispers.

“The mask doesn’t cover much. How are you feeling? I was just with my friends. Do join us, I can introduce you. Oh.” A pout sits on Clair’s lips. “Forgive me. How imprudent.”

Rinea glances over Clair’s shoulder at the men, who have the guards’ armor but Alm’s boyishness. One is staring at her; the other steers him away down the hall. “Friends from the war?”

“Yes. They fought alongside me until the end. I don’t imagine they would recognize you like this, but—”

“Please don’t trouble yourself.” She’s heard Alm’s army was comprised of those from all backgrounds. Seeing Clair’s friendships with them bolsters her to speak a wish she’d thought impossible. “You don’t really owe me anything, but a while ago you mentioned a favor, and…”

“I am a woman of my word. Say it, and it will be done.”

Rinea hopes the mask hides her red cheeks. “I was wondering if I might have a dance.”

“A dance? Why, it’s as if you’re doing _me_ a favor! I was beginning to think none of the castle residents knew how. And this castle has such a splendid ballroom.”

“No! That is, please, not that room.”

“Then where would you prefer to dance?”

Knowing Clair must be used to grand orchestras, Rinea admits she loves to dance outside. “There were no eyes on me,” she explains. “There was no music, either, but it was like the breeze was wrapping the birdsong around me, you see, and, ah...”

“I admit, I prefer the eyes, but none are more admiring than yours. I shall give it a whirl.”

* * *

Atop the castle wall, a breeze carries their hair across their faces. Rinea twines Clair’s hair, and then—more sloppily, so as not to make her wait—her own. Clair pats her own head with a frown.

“Fear not,” Rinea says. “I put more care into yours. You look lovely, as always.”

“One of these days I shall ask my handmaiden to tend to you. With the proper dress, and paint to conceal the shadows around your eyes…”

Rinea bites her lip. “My apologies. I should have realized I’d be unsuitable.”

“Do not be silly. You are _my_ partner today. I only thought that with your beauty given its proper dues, you might lift your shoulders. Why, your eyes are not even visible right now, pay my thoughtless words no mind.”

It’s true; her face is hidden, yet its state clearly left an impression. Clair lifts Rinea’s chin up with a thumb. “A dance is a joyous occasion. Let us have fun.”

With a curtsy, she holds out a hand that Rinea takes. Clair’s hand rests at her waist, and Rinea’s on Clair’s shoulder, the other trying to interlock burnt fingers with Clair’s. Rinea winces. “Forgive me.“

Clair wraps her fingers around Rinea’s palm. “We all came home with injuries.” An absent caress at the back of Rinea’s hand makes her shiver despite the warmth it plants. “Ready?”

At Rinea’s nod, Clair hums a tune to guide her feet in a waltz. Rinea follows her steps, which are simple at first as the pair become accustomed to the others’ movements. Clair keeps a steady gaze on her, but she quickly begins watching her feet. Dancing alone, she never had to worry—and in the end, she and Berkut knew how the other moved. It had seemed enough.

It was not.

A fire ignites within Rinea, making her lift her chin. Clair must see it in her eyes, for she quickens her steps. Rinea follows, allowing herself each clumsy turn, each stumble closer to Clair. She twirls away, letting the air whip around to feed her flame, hovering with the barest brush of their fingertips before rolling back into Clair’s embrace.

Delight dances on Clair’s face. At Rinea’s slightest nod, Clair continues to lead them in circles around the wall. A choir of birds accompanies them while Rinea pivots so sharply her feet scarcely touch the ground. Clouds shift, releasing beams of light, a chandelier swaying in the wind.

The birds go quiet as the clouds douse the sun’s candles. Breathless, the pair halts. Rinea all but inhales a loose lock of hair, which Clair releases her waist to brush away. Rinea would miss the warmth at her side if Clair weren’t _right there_ , flushed and dazzled.

“You are a splendid dancer,” Clair breathes. “Oh, I could just—“

“Kiss me.”

Clair’s eyes widen so far that her neck jerks back. When her lips part, it’s in speechlessness, perhaps the first case of it since they’ve met.

Realizing her mistake, Rinea plummets all the way to the ground. For all Clair is more worldly, Rinea has been engaged, and she has not (and Rinea is no longer, and to be so bold when Clair has not professed—).

“Yes,” Clair says. “I could just kiss you.”

Clair is clumsy where Rinea would have expected grace. It does not bother Rinea to soften and direct the meeting of warm mouths, especially when Clair’s hand slides down her jaw to her neck. Rinea clutches Clair’s shoulders tighter than she means to. Some part of her still spins far above the ground, but she does not try to tie herself down, only to keep someone with her in the air.

When they part, Clair steps back. Her knuckles at Rinea’s collar signal the distance is just to be respectable. “Was that adequate?” Clair asks.

“Very much so. Thank you, for this and… everything.”

“My pleasure is mine,” Clair says, a daze in her usual charm. Though Rinea shares it, she stayed up late organizing her words, and resolves to speak them before her knees give out.

“I know after all of this, I cannot lay claim to another favor.”

“Ask. If I do not wish to do it, I can simply decline.”

Knowing Clair speaks true, Rinea almost asks for another kiss. “When you are next ordered to ride, I would accompany you,” she says instead. “I know I might burden you. Despite improvements, my constitution is yet weak, and my magic yet untamed. But in the air, with such a brave knight, I would be safe to leave the castle and help others. I have some of a cleric’s training. If nothing else, I could heal.”

She touches the ring that now hangs on a chain around her neck. Clair’s hand covers hers, letting it linger before lifting it away from the ring.

“Why, escorting a lady is a duty, not a burden. But we needn’t wait for orders. I’m sure Maybelle would love to meet the one who admires her flight so.”

Careful and tender, Clair kisses Rinea’s bandaged fingers, and already Rinea begins to fly.


End file.
